Playing House
by Tainted Wicked
Summary: At the request of the Order of the Phoenix, Neville Longbottom agrees to take Draco Malfoy into his home. WARNING: MPreg, Neville/Draco slash, no explicit content. Work-in-progress.
1. Chapter 1

Neville stopped in front of the closed door to McGonagall office and took a deep breath to steady himself.

Before he could make up his mind knock, McGonagall's voice called from within. "Come in, Mr Longbottom!"

Neville felt a little shiver run down his back. McGonagall had always made him nervous. Besides, for the life of him he couldn't figure out why she asked him to meet with her. He hadn't heard from any of his former professors since leaving Hogwarts.

He pushed open the door and went in. "Hello, Professor."

McGonagall motioned him toward the visitor's chair. "Have a seat."

Neville sat down, smoothing his robes nervously.

"I called you in because the Order needs your assistance," McGonagall said, peering at him over her glasses. "You understand that what we speak of now can't leave this room?"

Neville nodded vigorously. His heart was beginning to pound with excitement at the thought of working for the Order. "Yes, Professor. I understand."

McGonagall held his gaze for a long moment before clearing her throat and shuffling a few papers. "Let me explain what we need from you. I understand you recently took possession of your Grandmother's house?"

"Yes," Neville said. "The Ministry finally turned it over to me just last week."

"Would you be willing to share your home with a former classmate? Someone who needs to disappear from view for a while?"

Neville hesitated for just a moment. He had never made many friends while at Hogwarts, except a few who had been part of Dumbledore's Army. He had always been seen as an outsider and rarely included in activities. Whomever the person was, he or she would be a virtual stranger to him.

On the other hand, this person obviously needed to be hidden, or Neville wouldn't have been asked. The fact that the Order was asking Neville for help in the matter was incredible in itself. Neville had always tried to help, but he knew he was never truly trusted not to mess up.

"I would be glad to do it," he said resolutely, pushing aside any further hesitation.

McGonagall frowned. "Think hard, Neville. You will be solely responsible for his well-being for as long as he stays in your home. You will also be his only contact with the outside world. This is a lot of responsibility we are asking you to shoulder. Are you certain you are up for it?"

Neville nodded. He hated how everyone always doubted him. "Yes, I'm sure."

Finally. McGonagall seemed satisfied. "Very well. His train will arrive tomorrow night at six. You are to meet him at the station, then take the Muggle bus home. The Floo Network is still being monitored." She held out several crisp slips of thin paper. "This is Muggle money. It is enough for two bus tickets."

Neville accepted it. "To whom should I report?"

"Your contact will be Hermione Granger. There is no need to make regular reports. Get in touch with her only if you need anything. You should continue all normal activities, and change your routine as little as possible. It is very unlikely that you are under watch, but exercise caution nonetheless."

Neville nodded. "I will."

McGonagall rose and offered him her hand. "Thank you, Neville. You can't imagine what a great help this will be. The Order is under a lot of pressure, and we simply cannot take on extra work."

"I'm just happy I can help," Neville said, blushing a little. "It's nothing, really. I was a bit lonely in that big old house anyway."

That was a slight exaggeration. It had been a change, moving from the rooming house in London to the large, empty house on the moor. He had wondered a few times whether he would have been happier renting a flat, or possibly sharing one with someone, so that he wouldn't be so isolated and alone. But then, things hadn't been very different when he had lived in the city. As far as everyone was concerned, he was still an outcast, just as he'd been at Hogwarts. The idea that someone would want to rent a flat with him was rather laughable.

McGonagall saw him to the door. "I'm certain everything will work out. Don't hesitate to contact Ms Granger if you need anything."

Neville shook her hand again, and sighed deeply when she shut the door, leaving him alone in the empty corridor.

The long walk to Hogsmeade gave him time to think, as well as to begin feeling nervous about his mission.

It did help to think of it as a mission. He didn't have to enjoy having a house guest, after all. This wasn't something he was doing for pleasure. The Order needed him, and Neville wasn't going to let any of his personal feelings get in the way of doing what he could to help.

McGonagall had said _his_, and _him_, so that meant his house guest was male. Neville wished he had asked for a name. It was harder not knowing.

He'd know soon enough though. There wasn't much time to get ready, and Neville certainly wasn't going to welcome anyone into his home without cleaning it top to bottom and getting a guest room ready. His Gran had taught him that much.

Neville reached Hogsmeade and the barbershop at the end of the main street. He knocked on the side door. After a moment an old witch answered it, and with a quick glance around him, Neville went inside.

He counted out a galleon and five sickles, dropping the coins into a large glass bottle on the counter. The witch held out a bowl of Floo powder.

A minute later Neville stepped out of the fireplace of his own house, shaking soot out of his hair.

He looked around the gloomy front room, still filled with half-unpacked crates and mountains of packing paper. It looked like it was going to be a long night.

He had a quick dinner before getting to work. By the time he had stowed away the last of the crates and closed the storage room door, it was past midnight.

Before going to bed, Neville chose one of the guest rooms and opened up the windows to let it air out. He didn't know how else to get rid of the musty odor. The room had been shut up for as long as Neville could remember. It had always been just him and his Gran in the old house, and they had never been wealthy enough to afford hired help or a house-elf.

Neville climbed into bed, exhausted and emotionally drained. He comforted himself with the thought that rooms at Order headquarters were musty and gloomy, too. His house could hardly be worse.

In the morning he was slightly more optimistic. With clean bedding and new drapes, the room was much more cheery. Besides, it had a nice view of the garden, even if just then the garden wasn't a particularly pretty sight. Neville spent a few minutes lost in thought, imagining what it would look like someday. He imagined red poppies, tall Foxglove, and blue Lungwort crowding the beds that now lay barren under a thin layer of morning frost. He imagined strawberry plants and berry bushes, cherry trees thick with red fruit, a vegetable garden that provided enough to eat and preserve, and a greenhouse filled with herbs he could sell to the shopkeepers in Diagon Alley. It had always been his dream to have all this and more, and now that he had the house, he thought maybe he could begin making some of those dreams come true.

Neville turned away from the window abruptly. Now wasn't the time for that. He had something more important to think about.

He looked around the room critically. It was clean, and had a comfortable bed and a sturdy desk in the corner, but it was barren and impersonal. Even without knowing anything about the person who would be living there, Neville thought he could make the room more welcoming.

He found a rug and a picture of a small ship in the middle of a vast ocean. The flapping white sails and the foam-capped waves added a bit of life to the dull, graying walls, and the blue squares on the rug matched the quilt on the bed.

He finally admitted to himself that he'd done all he could. Now all he could do was wait.

He prepared dinner, but left it on the stove. He hadn't eaten much at lunch, but he was too nervous to be hungry.

At five, unable to wait any longer, Neville left the house for the train station. He had often walked the distance, despite availability of both wizard and Muggle transportation, and he arrived with a quarter hour to spare.

The train was late.

Neville sat nervously on the bench at the end of the platform, twisting the hem of his robes in his hands and checking the clock every few minutes. Terrible things flashed through his mind.

He had almost made up his mind to call Hermione when he saw a wisp of white smoke appear on the horizon, just above the tracks.

The train rolled in ten minutes later, steam billowing as the wheels grated to a halt. Neville stood up nervously, craning his neck to better see the passengers exiting the two cars.

Not that there were many. This was, after all, a small country station with hardly anything of interest save for a post office and a general store. First, a wizard with a long beard and bushy mustache jumped to the platform. Ignoring everyone, he stalked away toward a waiting horse and buggy. A witch with two small children was met by a tall wizard in a bowler hat. Then an old witch in a white shawl came down, almost hidden behind the parcels she carried. Finally, two young ladies threw themselves into the arms of two young men holding bouquets of flowers.

Neville's heart began to beat faster as he waited. He was almost starting to think he had mixed something up, or misheard McGonagall. Maybe this wasn't the right train.

Then he saw him.

He was thin, and about as tall as Neville. He was completely hidden in a hooded cloak much too large for him. In his hands were a battered suitcase and a carpet bag.

"Hello!" Neville called, trying both not to attract undue attention and to be heard over the voices of the other people on the platform. "Over here!"

The young man turned toward him, the sun catching his face and illuminating wide gray eyes and hair that was almost white.

Neville froze in disbelief.

There had to be some mistake -- everything in him cried that there had to be.

But the young man hitched his carpet bag more firmly in the crook of his arm and headed toward him, his steps dragging and his shoulders slightly slumped. Even before he reached the end of the platform where Neville was standing, Neville could discern the familiar scowl on his face.

"Longbottom."

Neville sighed. "Malfoy."


	2. Chapter 2

Malfoy's scowl deepened. "Don't call me that. It's just Draco now."

Neville shrugged half-heartedly. What did it really matter? "Then it's Neville to you."

A short, stiff nod was the only affirmative. "I just want to make it clear I'm not happy about this."

Neville shrugged again. "I don't suppose so."

Malfoy -- Draco -- looked around suspiciously. "Is there a car, or are we Flooing?"

"Neither," Neville said with another sigh. "We're taking the Muggle bus."

From the expression on Draco's face, he wasn't happy about that, either.

"Come on," Neville said. "We better get going. The bus station is this way."

He went on ahead, straining to hear whether Draco was following, but not turning to look. At the station, he paid for two tickets without incident. By the time he came back from the booth, Draco was sitting on a bench, arms crossed over his chest and looking sullen.

Or at least Neville assumed he was looking sullen. It was rather hard to tell; the hood was still over Draco's head, hiding most of his face.

Neville sat down on the other end of the bench and stared down the road. He hoped the bus would come quickly. He had no idea what to say...

Which, he realized suddenly, was only the beginning of his problems. If Draco was going to be living with him, for who knew how long, he would have to put up with him, somehow. He couldn't very well pretend Draco wasn't there.

"Er... have you had dinner before you left?"

Draco shook his head without looking up.

"I guess we'll have dinner when we get home, then."

Draco didn't answer. Neville sighed and lapsed back into silence.

The bus came right on time. A few Muggles got off, and a few more got on, but Draco and Neville were the only wizards as far as Neville could tell.

Draco claimed a seat by a window, and proceeded to ignore Neville as completely as before.

Neville didn't mind too much. He was busy counting the stops, nervous about getting off at the right one. He didn't know if the bus went all the way to his house.

As it turned out, the bus stopped at the end of the main road, and they had a way to go after getting off.

"Do you want me to carry some of that?" Neville offered when he saw Draco switch his carpet bag to his other arm.

Draco relinquished his suitcase, which Neville quickly found not to weigh very much, though the handle was coming apart and made it uncomfortable to carry.

"It's not far now. Around that bend. You can see the chimney from here, if you look past the top of that big tree."

Draco didn't look. Neville didn't say anything more until they reached the front door.

"There're wards on the house," he said, fumbling with the large brass key, which had never fit well. "You don't have to worry."

"I'm not."

"McGonagall said you're not to leave the house."

"Why would I? It's my arse on the line if I do."

"Right." Neville pushed the door open, cringing at the loud creak. It occurred to him that after Malfoy Manor his house probably seemed like a decrepit shack.

Draco looked slowly around the dimly lit front room. Neville couldn't see enough of his face to read his expression.

"I got a room ready. Do you want to see it now?"

Draco nodded and followed him down the short hallway to the bedrooms.

"This one's mine," Neville said, pointing out his room. "This one was Gran's. It's locked up now. This one's yours."

Draco peered inside as Neville opened the door. He still didn't say anything.

"I hope it's acceptable."

Draco walked past him, inside. He dropped his bag at the foot of the bed. "It's fine."

Neville put down the suitcase just inside the door. "If you'd rather rest a while before dinner, that's all right."

"No. I haven't had anything since morning. What have you got?"

For a moment, Neville drew a blank. The afternoon already seemed like it had been part of a very different life, or possibly one lived by a different Neville Longbottom altogether. "Soup. Casserole. Some stir-fry vegetables."

Draco didn't comment on the menu, but he followed Neville to the small kitchen.

"I usually eat in here," Neville said, turning the stove on quickly and indicating the round table he had set with his Gran's best linen tablecloth. "There's a dining room, but it's too much hassle to carry things to and fro."

"No house-elves, I suppose?" Draco asked, sounding resigned to the expected answer.

"No."

Draco sat down.

"You can take off your cloak," Neville said, seeing him struggle with too-long sleeves that kept sliding down over his hands. "There's a coat rack in the corner."

A pair of angry gray eyes glared at him from inside the voluminous hood. "Just serve the food already."

Neville turned to the stove, barely bothering to hide the fact that he was rolling his eyes. "Coming right up."

He filled two plates, then went to the ice-box to see if he had any Butterbeer left. He had planned to serve tea, but any desire for formality had left him the minute Draco Malfoy had stepped into his house.

He returned, carrying two bottles. "I have Butterb--"

He froze mid-word.

Draco had taken off his cloak.

"Who hit you?" he asked when he regained the power of speech.

Draco scowled, the effect made worse by the ugly bruising covering half his face, from his eyebrow to his jaw. "It's none of your business."

Neville was still rooted to the spot. "Why didn't you have it healed? Wasn't there a nurse at --" He had been about to say Order headquarters, but caught himself. McGonagall hadn't said it was all right to discuss the Order. "Wherever you were," he finished.

"No," Draco said, scowling harder. "Just Shacklebolt, and he made it worse."

Neville suddenly and vividly recalled having a broken wrist healed by the Auror. "I'll get you a salve." He put down the bottles. "You can start. I'll be back in a minute."

By the time he had located the medication and returned to the kitchen, Draco was almost finished.

"Help yourself to more," Neville said, sitting down. "There's plenty. Here's the salve. Instructions are taped to the lid, and there's a mirror above the sink."

Draco fingered the small jar, then pushed it aside. "I'll do it later."

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

When they finished, Neville started to gather up the dishes and silverware.

Looking up, he saw Draco standing by his seat, looking uncertain.

"I've got this," Neville said. "You should go wash up and rest. You've probably had a long day."

A few minutes later, he went to see how his guest was doing, recalling that the bath was rather old fashioned.

"Find everything?" he asked, knocking on the door.

It opened, revealing a scowling Draco, now minus the worst of the bruising. "No. The tub doesn't work, and you have no shower."

"The tub works fine," Neville said, coming in. "You have to turn both knobs at once."

Draco continued to look annoyed while Neville showed him how to turn the water on.

"There's soap in the cupboard and bath salts in that drawer," Neville said, pointing them out. "The towels are in here. Is there anything else you need?"

"No."

Neville looked at the pile of clothing on the counter. Everything looked about three sizes too large. "Do you need to borrow some clothes?"

Draco scowled.

"I have plenty, you know. You're welcome to take some. They'll fit better than what you've got."

Finally, Draco nodded.

Neville went and got a plain white shirt from his wardrobe. It was one his Gran had bought in a size too small, in hopes of inspiring Neville to lose some weight. He had never worn it. "Here. This should be all right."

He hadn't expected gratitude, so he wasn't surprised when Draco shut the door immediately after taking the shirt. A moment later, Neville heard water running.

Quickly, Neville went into the front room and put in a fire call to Hermione. To his relief, she answered right away.

"Neville? Is something wrong?"

"Yes, something's wrong!" Neville seethed, trying to keep his voice down despite the sudden release of anger. "Why in bloody hell didn't somebody tell me I'd be looking after Draco Malfoy?"

Hermione, to her credit, looked both guilty and sorry. "I know this must be a shock, Neville. We tried to think of some other way, but you know he couldn't be held at Grimmauld Place. We didn't think you'd agree, so --"

"So you didn't tell me!"

"I'm sorry. We need this, Neville. It's just for a little while. And he's safe. He's on our side."

"I'll bet."

"It's just for a little while," Hermione said, looking pleading. "Will you keep him?"

Neville sniffed irritably. "Don't have much choice, do I?"

"I'm sorry."

"You said that already."

"Do you want to meet and talk about it? I'll be in Diagon Alley tomorrow."

Neville hesitated, recalling McGonagall's warnings. "Is that a good idea?"

"It won't look odd if two former classmates run into each other while shopping."

"All right. When?"

"I'll be there at two. We can meet at the joke shop."

Neville watched the fire flicker out and sat back on his heels, thinking.

Yelling at Hermione hadn't made him feel any better, and it certainly hadn't changed his situation. Draco Malfoy was going to stay with him, and that was the end of the story.

There was a loud creaking of old pipes, and then the water shut off in the bathroom. Neville got hurriedly to his feet, brushing soot off his lap and straightening his robes. By the time Draco came out, Neville had composed himself.

"I'm turning in, if you don't mind," Draco said, walking past him and yawning. "Tired."

"Of course," Neville said. "Go ahead."

Draco disappeared into his room, and Neville heard the lock click.

"Good night," Neville muttered under his breath.

He went around the house, turning down the lights and making sure all the windows were shut. It was early, but he had never been so exhausted in his life.

Half an hour later he crawled into his own bed, but it was hours before he was finally able to close his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Neville woke up at sunrise, like he always did. Early morning was the best time to work in the garden. It was still early in the season, and the ground froze every night, but despite that, Neville had plenty of work laid out for himself. There could be no planting if the dead vegetation and stubborn roots were not removed.

He dressed quickly, splashed cold water on his face -- a bath would have been nice, but even magic couldn't keep the old pipes from freezing overnight -- and headed to the kitchen. The crackling fire in the round belly of the iron stove quickly warmed the small room.

Neville was used to doing for himself. His Gran had valued independence, and her frequent illnesses had meant that Neville was able to run a household single-handedly from a young age. He didn't enjoy the chores, but he didn't shirk them.

Cooking was one of the few tasks he did enjoy. A thick recipe book had been passed down to him from his grandmother on his mother's side, and it was Neville's most treasured possession. On nearly every page there were notes in faded ink, and Neville knew by heart the ones made by his mother.

That morning, he took the book into the pantry and put it carefully away in a cedar chest underneath some half-finished quilts and needlework. He had his favorite recipes copied out into an old school notebook, anyway.

That done, Neville prepared eggs and sausages, his favorite breakfast, and ate quickly. He left plenty for Draco, then put on his boots and headed outside.

He had come to a decision the previous night, while lying awake and unable to shut his eyes without imagining he heard something creeping in the shadows around his bed.

Draco Malfoy was staying. That much was clear, because Neville didn't see himself going to McGonagall and telling her he was going back on his word. He could just imagine what his Gran would have said about that. No, he had agreed, and he would keep his word to the best of his ability. The only thing to do now was figure out how to get along with the other boy.

He had decided, finally, that he would let Draco be. There was no reason to pretend they were friends, and certainly Draco made no effort to be more than civil. Neville would do the same.

He had things he wanted to do, and entertaining a sullen house guest was not one of them. The house needed work, and the garden would need all the attention he could give it. Neville would do exactly what he would have done if Draco hadn't come.

Or at least he would try to. He wasn't naive. Having another person in the house certainly changed things. He would have to make sure Draco had what he needed, at least, and it wouldn't hurt to keep a close eye on him, no matter what Hermione said. Maybe Draco was on their side now, but why, then, didn't the Order want him around Grimmauld Place?

Neville's thoughts drifted along these lines as he set to work on another flower bed. Just what wasn't he being told? What had Draco done, either to be trusted by McGonagall or to be mistrusted by You-Know-Who's supporters? Because, Neville realized, if Draco needed to be hidden, then there was hardly any question about just whom he needed to be hidden from. The only question was why.

He almost forgot about the time, until the chiming of a chock told him it was nearly noon. Getting up, she took off his heavy gloves and put his tools away into their box, then headed back toward the house.

Draco was in the kitchen.

To be precise, Draco was at the stove, stirring something that smelled vaguely of chicken and vegetables, but more of sharp spices and herbs.

"I didn't know you cooked."

Draco looked up, arching an eyebrow. "Why would you?"

Neville shrugged. He pulled off his boots and left them by the door before coming all the way inside. "You didn't have to do it. You're a guest here."

Draco didn't reply.

"It smells good," Neville said after a moment. "What is it?"

"One of my mother's recipes."

Neville wouldn't have supposed Narcissa Malfoy cooked, either, but he didn't say so. "Did you find everything all right?"

"Yes."

Neville watched him for a few more minutes, but Draco ignored him.

"I'll set the table," Neville said, more to himself than to Draco.

He got out the dishes and the silverware and began to set two places. "I have to go to Diagon Alley today." He stole a glance at Draco. "Do you need anything?"

Draco had his back to him, but Neville heard his scowl in his voice. "No."

"Are you sure?"

Draco stopped stirring and breathed out irritably. "Look. I don't have any money, and if I did, I wouldn't spend it if I didn't have to."

A moment passed in silence.

"I didn't ask for money," Neville said carefully. "I asked if you needed anything. If you do, you better say so now, because this might be my last trip to London in a long time, and the local shop hardly carries anything."

"Fine," Draco said tersely. "A book, then."

"What kind of book?"

"I don't care. Anything except plants. That's all you have around here."

Neville bitterly recalled a Ministry official carting out his Gran's books, among them the ones Neville had loved as a child. The owner of an antique shop had taken them as payment for old debts. Neville had been able to buy back, or replace, only what was most important to him -- his Herbology books and his mother's recipe book.

"Maybe a pack of cards," Draco went on, ignoring Neville's silence. "Unless you have one? A six score deck?"

"I don't have one," Neville said. His Gran had disapproved of card games. "I'll buy it. Anything else?"

"No."

Neville brought two bowls over to the stove and set them down. "That really does look good."

Draco scowled down at the contents of the pot. "Too watery."

Neville didn't say anything. It seemed to him Draco was determined to see the down side of everything, and Neville didn't know how to respond to that kind of attitude.

They didn't speak while eating. Neville was planning out his shopping list, because he really did need a few household items, and Draco kept his gaze fixed on the window.

"Are you going to be all right here while I'm gone?" Neville asked as he took his empty bowl to the sink.

Draco, who was still eating, looked up, eyes narrowed. "Why wouldn't I be? I'm not five. I won't burn the house down."

"I didn't say you would," Neville said, taking his coat and a cloth shopping bag from the rack. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Still looking ruffled, Draco turned back to his food.

"Right," Neville said. "I'll see you."

Not waiting for a reply, which he was sure wasn't coming, he went into the front room.

The Floo took him directly to a the Leaky Cauldron. From there, he went into a household goods shop and spent some time picking out soap, lamp oil, and candles. Aside from needing to replenish his stores, it wouldn't do to be seen going straight into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

A little after two, Neville walked into the joke shop. Trying to look like a casual shopper, he pretended to be interested in a display of Catherine wheels until Hermione came out of a back room.

"You can come in here, Neville. The building is warded against surveillance."

Neville followed her, waving to Fred, who was behind the counter, on the way.

"Well?" Hermione asked as soon as the door was shut. "How is he?"

Neville shrugged. "All right, I suppose. He hasn't tried to hex me, if that's what you're asking."

"That's good."

"Listen, Hermione. I'm sorry I yelled at you. It's not your fault."

Hermione ducked her head, reddening.

"It's not your fault," Neville asked suspiciously, "is it?"

Hermione nodded, reddening even more. "McGonagall asked for suggestions and I just thought..." She made a helpless gesture with her hands. "I thought... Since you had a house of your own, and you weren't technically with the Order..."

Neville drew in a long breath and let it out slowly.

"Are you terribly angry?"

"No," Neville said. "Wish someone had bothered to let me in on it, though. I might have said yes."

"You might have said no."

"There really wasn't anyone else who could take him?"

"Mad-Eye offered."

Neville shuddered on Draco's behalf.

Hermione sat down on one of the large crates that filled the room, and motioned for Neville to do the same. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I don't think so."

She dug in her pocket and produced an envelope. "McGonagall wanted me to pass this on. Some Muggle money. There's a note, also. I didn't read it."

Neville opened it and took out a folded sheet of Hogwarts stationary. He read quickly.

"What does she say?"

"That I should use Muggle shops if I can. Someone might notice I'm buying more food than one person needs."

"Do you know how to do that? Use Muggle money, I mean?"

Neville nodded, pocketing the envelope. "I'll be all right."

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

Neville cleared his throat. "I should go."

"Are you going straight back?"

"No. I have a few things to buy."

Hermione followed him to the door. "Stay out of the Blue Raven and the Apothecary. We're watching them for Death Eater activity."

Neville nodded. "Thanks. I'll see you, Hermione."

"Call me if you need anything."

Neville stopped by the counter to buy a packet of sweets, so he wouldn't be seen leaving the shop empty-handed.

"That all for you?" Fred asked, ringing up the sale.

"Yes. Thanks, Fred."

"Sure thing. Don't let Malfoy eat them all, now."

Neville smiled and shook his head.

"And don't let him boss you around, either. Stupid prat wouldn't quit complaining the whole time he was here --"

"He was here?" Neville asked in surprise.

"McGonagall thought we could take him, especially with Charlie here, too."

"But...?"

Fred rolled his eyes. "We have a shop to run. If he'd just sat quietly somewhere, I wouldn't have minded so much. He was into everything. The only time he'd sit still was when he got his hands on Charlie's books, and Charlie wasn't too keen on letting him paw through them."

Neville was silent for a long time, digesting this.

"Sorry we unloaded him on you," Fred continued, though not sounding particularly apologetic. "McGonagall took him to Hogwarts. I didn't know she wouldn't keep him there."

"That's all right," Neville said, forcing a smile. "Say, you don't happen to remember what book he'd been reading?"

Fred thought for a moment. "Something about dragons, that's all I recall. Charlie was peeved 'cause he's working on some top secret project and he had his notes in it. Why?"

"Just curious," Neville said, shrugging. "Well, I better go. Can you pack this in a large bag for me?"

Fred threw in some wadded-up packing paper along with the sweets. "There. Now you look like a proper customer."

At that moment the door chimed, signaling that a real customer had come in, and Neville moved quickly away from the counter.

Once outside, he looked around, trying to decide where to go next.

The book shop was closest. Then the toy shop, where he bought the deck of cards.

He was tempted to go into Madam Malkin's, but decided it would look too odd if he bought clothes that were clearly too small for him. Draco would have to make do with what Neville could lend him.

The Apothecary had been his source for herb seeds at a lower price than a specialty store, but he heeded Hermione's warning. His next stop was the Thyme & Seasons.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Hyssop."

The old woman waved from behind the counter, squinting at him through her thick glasses.

Neville walked slowly down the isles, looking at packets of seeds, sprouts floating in stagnant water in small clay jars, pouches of moist moss, and bunches of dry herbs tied with twine. It was hard to choose among them. The garden in his mind had all of them, but he could only afford to buy a few.

The shop sold flowers, as well. Neville chose a few inexpensive bulbs, spending the last few sickles he had in his money bag.

He sighed a little as he left the shop. The garden of his dreams wouldn't happen that year; not with a second person in the house to feed and clothe. Neville himself would have been happy to live on bread and milk if it meant having more money to spend on plants, but he doubted Draco would agree.

He returned to the Leaky Cauldron, and took the Floo back to his house.

"About time."

Neville looked up from brushing off his robes, and saw Draco in the kitchen doorway, leaning casually against the door frame.

"Thought you'd taken a wrong turn and got stuck arse up in some Muggle's chimney."

Neville shoved the shopping bag at Draco's chest. "Put that on the counter."

Unperturbed, Draco only quirked up his eyebrow before disappearing into the kitchen.

"Prat," Neville muttered under his breath, kicking off his boots.

When he came into the kitchen, the shopping bag was lying in the center of the table, and Draco was sprawled in a chair, reading an old copy of The Quibbler.

Neville started to unpack the bag. He set aside the book and cards.

"Is that for me?"

Neville nodded, pushing them toward Draco.

"It is a six score deck, right?"

"That's what you said you wanted."

Draco reached for the cards, nearly knocking the bag of sweets off the table with his elbow.

Neville quickly moved the rest of his things out of reach. "Careful!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "What's the fuss over a bunch of twigs?"

This time, Neville fixed him with a glare. "They're for my garden and they were expensive, so keep your hands off them, if you don't mind!"

Draco leaned forward and examined the small pile of seeds, bulbs, and herbs disdainfully. "That's right, I remember now. You were into Herbology at school. Don't worry, I wouldn't touch that stuff if you paid me to."

Neville gathered up his purchases possessively, putting them back in the bag and taking it into the pantry for safe keeping. When he came out, Draco was flipping through the book.

"Is the book all right?"

Draco shrugged. "Fine." He shut it and tossed it onto a chair along with the deck of cards. "Are we going to have dinner tonight, or not?"

Neville checked the clock. It was past five. "I'll fix something."

It didn't take long to reheat leftovers, and Neville ate his portion quickly. He wanted to spend the last few hours of daylight working in the garden.

"I don't suppose you bought food?" Draco asked, poking at a piece of potato with his fork. "The ice-box is nearly empty."

Neville shook his head. "You know there's no grocers in Diagon Alley." He didn't mention the Muggle store. Who could say how a Malfoy would react to something like that? "There's a general store in town. I'll go at the end of the week."

Draco scowled down at his plate, but he didn't say anything.

"If you need me, I'll be out in the garden," Neville said, rising and taking his dishes to the sink.

"What would I need you for?"

Biting his tongue, Neville let the door slam behind him.

He didn't blame the twins one bit for kicking Draco out.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning Neville woke up with a new sense of purpose. He got through his morning chores at lightning speed, fixed breakfast of ham and eggs, then retreated to the garden with the morning paper.

He had to find a job.

He had been putting it off, thought he had half-heartedly sent off a few applications. There was the war, of course, but Neville had to admit that it looked like it might drag on for a while yet. And the fact that his place of employment could turn out to be a Death Eater hideout -- Neville recalled with a shudder that he had applied for a job in the tea room of the Blue Raven, the club Hermione told him was now under surveillance -- had also given him reason to put it off.

But he would just have to take that chance. He needed the money, and he needed something to occupy his time. Draco would drive him mad on short order if he didn't find a way to get out of the house at least once in a while.

He sighed, flipping the morning paper to the job ads. It was mostly money. He could stand Draco Malfoy, somehow, but he couldn't see how he would make his meager savings stretch, even with the money McGonagall had given him. The Order couldn't afford to support another household. Neville was able-bodied and had adequate skills. He wouldn't allow himself to become a burden.

Of course, he would have to check with the Order before he applied for any position. Neville lowered the paper, frowning. Maybe he should check to see if the Order needed him for anything. Sometimes they forgot that he was ready to help out.

Making up his mind to ask Hermione to forward a message, Neville put on his gloves and headed deeper into the garden.

It was the perfect morning to work, bright despite the clouds hanging low over the horizon. Soon he was completely absorbed by the task at hand.

"Hey!"

Neville looked up, startled, and peered cautiously around a scraggly bush.

Draco was standing on the porch, hands on his hips. "Hey!"

Neville stood up slowly. "I have a name."

Draco rolled his eyes, snorting impatiently. "Whatever. Do you know it's an hour past lunch? I'm starving."

"Couldn't you find anything in the cupboards?"

Draco only scowled.

Pulling off his gloves, Neville began to trudge back to the house. "Fine. I'll see what I can find."

Draco said nothing as Neville passed him.

There was plenty of food, if one just took the initiative of looking for it. Neville couldn't believe Draco couldn't even fry an egg and chop a few carrots for a salad. He _didn't_ believe it, since he had seen Draco cook before.

As he was flipping eggs and bacon on the frying pan, he saw Draco come in and sit down at the kitchen table.

Waiting to be served, no doubt. What a bloody pity Gran's silver serving trays were gone. Neville smirked to himself, turning his face away so Draco wouldn't see.

"I would have done it, you know," Draco said sullenly from behind him. "I know what you're thinking."

"Then why didn't you?" Neville asked. Then, because his tone sounded sarcastic even to himself, he added, "I wasn't thinking anything. I'm the one who said you should consider yourself a guest while you're here."

"You didn't seem very happy with my cooking the last time."

"What's that supposed to mean? I said it was nice."

"Yes, and you waited until I took the first bite! Probably thought anything I made would poison you!"

Neville turned to face him, blinking in amazement. "No I didn't. That's crazy."

Draco narrowed his eyes and scowled. "Yes you did."

"No, I... oh, forget it, Draco. I'm not getting into this kind of childish argument with you." Neville turned back to the stove resolutely. "In the future, you're welcome to cook anything you please. You are also welcome to redecorate your bedroom. I noticed you're still living out of your suitcase."

"It will save me the trouble of packing again," Draco muttered darkly.

Neville sighed in exasperation. "What are you going on about now?"

"I know why you went to see Granger."

"And why is that?"

"You don't want me here."

Neville laughed. He didn't mean to, but the very idea of anyone wanting Draco Malfoy to live with them seemed absurd. "Listen, you're here and I'm willing to let you stay as long as you need to. That's all I have to say about it."

Draco only scowled in response.

The food was done, but Neville was not hungry. He filled a plate and set it down on the table. "There you go. I'll be in the garden if you need anything else."

He got as far as the door before Draco stopped him. "Do you have another shirt I can borrow? This one needs washing."

"Sure," Neville said. "Take whatever you want from my wardrobe. You know where my room is."

It wasn't like he had anything of value.

He didn't expect thanks, and was not surprised when he didn't hear any.

He spent several more hours in the garden, but a drizzling rain drove him back into the house prematurely.

Draco was nowhere to be seen, but as his bedroom door was shut, Neville assumed he was there.

He fixed himself a late lunch, noting that Draco had added his dirty dishes to the pile in the sink. Not that he expected anything else.

He cleaned up the kitchen and then took his box of seeds into his room, figuring if he couldn't work in the garden then he could at least plan what he would do when the weather was nicer.

He couldn't help it. As soon as he had closed and locked the door, he went over to the wardrobe and opened it.

Draco had helped himself with a free hand, he saw. Neville wondered at the audacity of taking the best and newest-looking clothing out of someone's wardrobe. All his silk shirts were gone. Of course, they were too small for him, and he never wore silk because even a bit of sweat ruined the fabric. But still.

One of his favorite argyle jumpers was also gone.

He saw it again as he was preparing dinner. Draco came into the kitchen, sniffing the air expectantly.

The jumper was too big on him, and had slipped off one shoulder, making him appear waif-like.

"Are we having that again?" Draco asked, wrinkling his nose when he saw the sausages Neville was piling onto a platter.

"Yes."

Draco sat down at the table.

Any other person, Neville thought as he set down the food and went to get the dishes and silverware, would have at least asked if he could help set the table.

Draco didn't speak, and Neville was content to eat in silence.

"Pass the salt."

Neville pushed the salt shaker toward him.

For the first time, he got a good look at Draco's face.

He didn't look very good. His hair was limp, there were dark spots under his eyes...

The last thing he needed was for Draco to get ill while under his care.

"Are you feeling all right?"

Draco sighed exaggeratedly. "Yes. Fine."

Neville nodded and returned to his food. He wasn't one to bother people if they didn't want to tell him what was wrong.

"I'm terribly bored," Draco continued, apparently not caring whether Neville had asked or not.

"I'm sorry there isn't more to do here."

Draco sighed again.

Neville tried to ignore him, but somehow he had the feeling this wasn't the end of it.

"I thought I would be doing something. Not hiding like a coward."

"Doing what?"

"I don't know. Something important."

Neville choked down a snort and gulped his tea. "Really?" he said as soon as he thought he could manage it.

"Well, I didn't risk my life to be tossed aside like this!"

Neville thought that was pretty ungrateful. As far as he knew, a lot of people -- him included -- had bent over backwards to accommodate Draco's need to be kept safe.

But he didn't say so.

"I am sorry you're bored. Have you finished your book?"

"No."

"There you go, then. You have something to do until you have finished it, at least."

Draco threw him a disgusted look, and lapsed into sullen silence, which lasted almost until the end of the meal and made Neville highly uncomfortable.

"Aren't you even curious?"

Neville froze with his fork half-way to his mouth. "Curious about what?"

"How I got here."

Neville thought he knew where this was leading, but he pretended he didn't. He wished Draco wouldn't bring it up. "On the train, remember?"

"Don't play stupid."

Sighing, Neville pushed aside his plate and leaned back, resigned to hearing the sordid details of why Draco Malfoy, the son of two of the most prominent Death Eaters, needed to be protected by the likes of Neville Longbottom. "All right. Tell me. I'm dying of curiosity."

Draco scowled at him.

"Honestly?" Neville said, shrugging. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"For your information," Draco ground out through clenched teeth, "I gave away key Death Eater positions! If it wasn't for me, half your stupid Gryffindor friends would be dead right now!"

"Oh," Neville said, not particularly impressed and not managing to sound otherwise. Draco's exaggerations had never made much of an impact on him. "That was good of you."

"You bet your arse that was good of me!"

Neville looked at Draco's flushed, angry face, and wondered just what Draco had expected him to say.

He was curious, actually, but he had been truthful when he'd said he didn't want to know. If he had a Death Eater living in his house, even a reformed one, he wasn't sure he would sleep any better having heard the entire story.

"If you are so set on telling me," he said, "then go ahead, if it will make you feel better."

"I don't have anything to feel badly about!" Draco yelled, banging his fist on the table and causing the dishes to jump and rattle.

"Weren't you a Death Eater, then?" Neville blurted out in spite of himself.

Draco's chair skidded across the floor as he stood up, tearing the left sleeve of his shirt as he yanked it up to his elbow. "Does it LOOK like I was?"

There was no Dark Mark, Neville saw. Still...

"It isn't my fault everyone assumed you'd joined. You left school half-way through the year. Your friends Crabbe and Goyle were caught setting fire to Muggle homes, and they were with You-Know-Who for sure."

"So what?" Draco demanded. "Father pulled me out of school when Snape was revealed as a spy. He thought Snape was trying to get too close to me. And I DON'T see what those two buffoons have to do with me!"

"You seemed to be the leader of them from Year One," Neville pointed out. "Of course we all assumed you'd joined You-Know-Who together."

"Of course!" Draco spat. "Because I'm a Slytherin, and not a do-gooder Gryffindor! Of course you would expect me to get in with Voldemort!"

Turning on his heel, Draco stomped out of the room. A few seconds later, his bedroom door slammed thunderously, rattling the windows and all the dishes on the drying rack.

Neville slowly let out a long breath.

He supposed he had no choice but to believe that Draco had not been a Death Eater, but he still wished they had never had this conversation.

He cleaned up the kitchen.

Maybe he would turn in early. Suddenly, he was exhausted.

There was no sound from Draco's room when he paused by the door on his way to his own bedroom.

Maybe he should...

No. He wasn't up for another argument, and one was sure to happen if he tried speaking to Draco now.

He curled up with a Herbology book and read for the next hour, every once in a while raising his head to listen for any sign that Draco was up and about, but Draco's door remained shut.

Turning out his light, Neville lay in the darkness for a long time, thinking.

Sleep wouldn't come, and finally he got out of bed again, found a piece of parchment and a quill, and penned a short note to Hermione, asking her to see if there were any jobs suitable for his skill level available in the very near future.

His old owl came at his call, and he watched her fly off with the letter until she was just a speck in the evening sky.

Well. That was done, anyway. If Hermione came through for him, he would have a job, and Draco's bad moods would not grate on his nerves so.

Feeling slightly better, he climbed back in bed and was soon asleep.


End file.
